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one wall, topped by a down comforter in a soft cream duvet. A few blue and chocolate brown throw pillows lay on top, reflecting the same colors in a simple window valance and some scattered area rugs on the wood floor. Two bookshelves full of my favorite books, photos, and CDs lined the opposite wall. “What am I looking for?”
    “The box. Full of Jason stuff. Where is it?”
    I jerked my arm away. “How do you know about the box?”
    She shrugged off my glare. “We all have that guy, Jess. The one whose pictures we can’t throw away. The more toxic the relationship, the longer you hold on to the box, so you for sure have one full of his stuff. Get it out. Every last bit of it.”
    Our stare down lasted for a full ten seconds before I glanced away. “It’s not a big deal. I never even look at it.”
    “And why would you when it’s all burned into your steel trap of a brain? That box is a pit of bad feng shui, and you need to get it out of here.”
    Now I rolled my eyes. “Feng shui?”
    “You mock, but it works. I wasn’t sleeping well, so I changed the direction my bed faces, and now I have good dreams.”
    “Wow. How did they ever penetrate the dirty laundry fortress at your footboard?”
    Her eyes narrowed. “I’m counting to three, and then I’m calling your mom. Move it.”
    I trudged to the closet and reached into the back. I pulled out a battered shoebox and tossed it on the bed. “See, it’s even dusty. I told you I don’t look at it.”
    She ignored me, grabbed it, and marched out of the room while I followed like a lemming until I figured out her destination. I hustled to jump in front of the fireplace. “You can’t burn all that! It’s my personal history.”
    “Oh, it’s history all right. But I’m not going to burn it. You are.” Dropping the box at my feet, she headed back to the kitchen. “Stay there,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m not done with you yet.” She returned with the fireplace matches and my phone. Handing me the matches, she pretended to study the phone. “Let’s see, your mom’s speed dial number is one, right?”
    “No,” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “That’s 911, but you’d better hit it because I’m going to kill you.”
    She held the phone out of reach, unfazed. “So your mom is on two. Do I have to count to three again?”
    When I glared, she softened. “It’s for the best, Jessie. You have to exorcise the bad Jason juju if you’re ever going to get anywhere in your relationships.” She sighed when my expression didn’t change. “Think of it this way. Does he deserve even a corner of your closet?”
    I blinked. Then I did it again. And then I was blinking back tears. “I’ve worked so hard to be done with him. Why can’t I get rid of this box?”
    She took my wrist again, only this time she led me to the sofa. “Come on; sit down. We’re not getting through this without chocolate.” Her phone blared “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne, the ringtone she used for her mom. I used to think it was mean until I met her mom and realized it was merely accurate.
    “Go ahead and get it,” I told Sandy.
    “Nah. She’s probably having another meltdown.”
    “Well, so am I.”
    “Yeah, but this is your first. This won’t even be her first this week. She’ll have another one tomorrow, and I’ll talk to her then.”
    She disappeared for a moment, and thirty seconds later I found myself holding a carton of fudge ripple and a giant serving spoon. “This can’t be good,” I said. The bigger the spoon, the worse the problem. I took it and asked, “Am I this messed up?”
    “Start eating, sister. We’ve got years to untangle.”
    I grumbled but dug into the ice cream while she retrieved the box and yanked the lid off. She riffled through the items, forming them into a heap on the sofa cushion. Movie tickets, a concert stub, mementos from hiking trips. While she examined a Kit Kat wrapper, “Crazy Train” went off again, but she